Secrets to Attend
by storyinmypocket
Summary: (Slash) Having escaped from the Initiative, Ethan wanders through the desert and indulges in a flashback.


**Disclaimer:** Ripper, Ethan and the Buffyverse are not mine.

**Feedback:** Please. If it sucks, tell me how, so future writing will not suck. Comment where you find this, or email trollopfop -at- morethanmortal -dot- com.

**Inspired by: **"Crime Scene Part One" by the Afghan Whigs, a very good song that's very fitting for Ethan and Giles.

**Archive:** The edited version lives at The UNCENSORED and EXPLICIT version can be found at http/thorngarden. or my FicWad account (linked in my profile). If you like this and want to put it elsewhere, ask first. Odds are good that I'll say yes. MSTings are also welcome.

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He's still walking through this bloody desert. Bloody _fucking_ desert, bloody as his face, his hands. The blood is drying, and he knows the magic will fade soon, and then he won't be able to ignore the pain any longer. But he's still pointed to Sunnydale, like a compass needle, because that's where _He_ is. Property returning to its owner, and all that. So he keeps walking, and hopes the spells will hold just a little longer.

The spells had been set up against just such a time of need. Anyone trying to kill Ethan Rayne wouldn't find it as easy as they might think, oh no. He took _precautions._ So even with little bits of his brain in jars somewhere, removed ever so carefully to keep the specimen alive, even with the pain of a dislocated shoulder and the drugs in his system, he was able to get up off the table and go to work.

He has some idea of what they were trying to do, isolate the part of the brain, or maybe the makeup of the brain, or _something,_ responsible for the phenomenon people like him called magic. Lucky for him they had no clue what they were doing. Pity they got as far as they did, but the spells were only set to kick in when he was at death's door, and not before then. Best to be underestimated. Best to let everyone, even _Him_, think that they could hurt him however they liked. He's very good at feigning weakness, helplessness, and he knows the best cons are the ones with just a bit of truth behind them.

So it was only after the fifth attempt at removing some tiny part of his brain and studying it, the attempt that would have killed him, that he got up off the operating table and picked up the scalpel. That pretty young doctor was so surprised, his vivid green eyes going wide and scared at the sight. And with good reason. Half an hour later, those emerald eyes were proudly displayed in the middle of the table, jewels offered to some minor demon lord or another. He forgets who, exactly. It's a bit hard to focus.

Bone to form the gate, tied together with strips of woven skin, blood to open it, meat to tempt them with the promise of more, and the eyes a special gift, to make sure that he'd emerge unscathed. The Initiative wanted unnatural creatures to study: very well then, he'd given them several. Hospitality should be rewarded, after all, and they had taken such _good_ care of him. What blood was left over went to boosting the spells that kept him walking.

The blood is flaking off his wrists now, going sticky at his fingertips. Not much longer. Not much longer at all. He wonders if _He_ will know, will come. Not likely. _He_ prefers to forget the ties between them, even when _He_ was the one that formed them in the first place, carved them into Ethan's skin and soul with blade and breath and magic.

_He_ was always the one to clean up Ethan's messes, though. So he lets himself hope, lets the thought cross his mind that _maybe,_ just maybe, Ripper will find him. And because there's nothing else to do but walk, he remembers.

It's going to hurt. More than usual, that is. Ripper's always enjoyed playing rough, but Ethan can tell from the cold look in his eyes that time, he's in trouble.

"A demon."

Ethan nods.

"You summoned a _demon._ In the middle of the _park_."

Ethan nods again. "Scared the kiddies, had a bit of fun. So?" He didn't think Ripper's eyes could get any colder, but now they're chips of ice, and the hand that was so casually running through his hair is a balled fist now, pulling his head back, and Ethan's surprised that his hair hasn't ripped free of his scalp.

"They're _watching_ me, pillock. Watching every bloody move I make. And d'you believe for one second that something like this won't be _noticed?"_ His voice is falling into the formal patterns he was brought up with, and Ethan knows Ripper well enough to know that this is _bad._

"So?" he chokes out. "Tell 'em to sod off. What can they do to you, anyway?" And even as he asks it he knows it's the wrong question, the one Ripper will never answer.

"Right now, you should be more worried about what _I_ can do to _you_." The words are too perfect, Ripper's affected accent gone completely, just the perfect, clipped diction of a proper English schoolboy. _Oh, bugger..._

Yes, this is _definitely_ going to hurt.

Ripper's dragging him by the hair, and suddenly he's sprawling, face down on that awful, filthy mattress they'd salvaged from the trash. Ripper's on top of him now, pushing his face into the mattress, and he. Can't. Breathe. Ripper's other hand is stripping him with methodical cruelty, and Ethan is cursing the unbuttoned shirt that makes it so easy for Ripper to remove his clothing one-handed, without letting him up, letting him breathe.

The shirt is off, and now the jeans, and Ripper's chuckling softly as Ethan thrashes, tries to get up. He can _hear_ the smirk in Ripper's voice, and it's making him thrash all the harder. He's trying to apologize around a facefull of mattress, and the muffled noises make Ripper ease off for a moment.

"­­­­­­—sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Oh, repentant _now,_ are we?" Ripper sounds almost cheerful.

"Yes, yes, I'm—"

"Should've thought about that before today's little show, then." And Ethan's face is shoved all the harder into the mattress.

When Ripper takes him, it's painful, invasive, yet overwhelmingly pleasurable, the force of Ripper's anger driving every movement. Ethan moans and cries into the mattress, struggling for more air, more contact. He loses himself in the sensation while his lungs scream for oxygen, listening with only half his mind to the gutteral chanting that comes from his lover.

He wants to know, _needs_ to know what Ripper is doing, but the world is fading now. The wave of pain/pleasure is carrying him further away from consciousness, progressing inevitably towards something that could be orgasm, could be death—he's not sure which, and at the moment, he doesn't care.

And then the wave breaks, and for a moment, the world goes away entirely.

The rush of air entering his lungs brings him back, back to Ripper now pulling him up onto his knees, still not done with him. Once he's got Ethan where he wants him, Ripper cradles him loosely in one arm, while his other hand reaches for something to the side of the bed. Another slight shift, and Ethan feels cold metal and sharp pain. Ripper's got the ritual knife they kept by the bed, and is carving runes into his shoulderblades, barely moving, otherwise, the better to focus on the blade. Ethan feels the magic settling into his skin with every cut and every chanted word, words of possession and binding.

_"Mine."_ The word is growled into his neck, as Ripper wraps Ethan in a tight, possessive embrace.

"Yes, yours." Ethan can only whisper through the tears, but for the moment, that's enough. "Always yours."

Ripper lowers him to the mattress, gentle now, kissing Ethan's neck and shoulders. He settles himself around Ethan, pressing close despite the sticky wetness of Ethan's body, holding him like he'll never let go. Ethan sinks into the embrace, exhausted, trembling, but oddly happy. He is warm, held, _wanted,_ and that's the thought that takes him down into a far more gentle darkness.

It's only when he is somewhere on the border between waking and dreaming that he thinks he hears Ripper again, and he can't be sure whether the words are spoken aloud or only in a dream:

_"They won't separate us. I won't allow it. Never..."_

Ethan wakes the next morning to a hand running gently down his side and then tracing one hipbone with the same gentle possessiveness Ripper had shown him at the end of last night. He smiles, turns towards Ripper, wincing as the scabs on his back break open, fresh blood oozing out to join the dried blood already caked on his back.

Ripper sees the wince, and his eyes darken. He reaches out to trace the carved runes, his touch soothing. He traces Ethan's lips with blood-covered fingers, leaving behind a parody of the bright lipstick Ethan sometimes favours when they go out. Before Ethan can speak, Ripper's lips are on his, and Ethan tastes his own blood in Ripper's mouth. It's comforting, frightening, undeniably erotic. Ripper's hand runs down his other side, leaving carmine smears on the paleness of Ethan's skin.

When Ripper breaks the kiss, Ethan makes a small disappointed whimper. But it's worth it, just to see Ripper smile like that, to hear his deep, almost purring chuckle. And, in that moment, he dares to speak.

"I was already yours, you know. I know you were angry, and I _am_ sorry, but... You didn't have to. I belong to you anyway." He considers a moment. "Don't know that I _mind,_ but..." and he buries his face in Ripper's shoulder, "...I just thought I should say."

Ripper holds him close for a minute, and when he speaks, there's a hint of sadness in his voice. "The Council... would see things differently. I had to make sure you wouldn't bring them down on us, sure they wouldn't..."

Ethan clings to him. "I thought I was going to..."

"To die?" Ripper pushes him back slightly, his fingers under Ethan's chin, tilting his head up. "D'you really think I'd let that happen?"

And Ethan's crying again, silently, shaking his head. He knew, knew even then, but he needed to hear the words. He knows that Ripper will take him right up to the edge of the abyss, fuck him bloody while he stares into it, but he needed the reassurance that he wouldn't be allowed to fall. _These are the games we play..._

"Of course," and Ripper's voice is brittle now, struggling to seem unconcerned, "if you're worried, you _can_ leave, y'know."

For a moment, the thought lingers in his mind. Ethan knows that, if he left now, he could undo the binding. He has enough power of his own that it would be relatively simple. If he stayed, there would be more, layer upon layer, tying him to Ripper, until he'd never get out. But then, he never wants to get out. Ripper wants _him,_ not just the pretty whore he appears to be, but the sorcerer, the poet, the broken boy underneath it all. Ripper will hurt him in all the ways he craves, and protect him from those who'd hurt him in all the ways he doesn't.

So Ethan says nothing, but raises his lips to Ripper's, trying to say in that kiss what he can't say in words.And when the kiss ends, and the mingled copper and salt on Ethan's lips is just a memory, Ripper whispers three words into his ear that make him press all the more desperately to Ripper's warmth.

_"I love you."_

Ethan Rayne has found home, and it's here, in this boy with the sadistic fire is his eyes and the tender cruelty in his hands. And nothing, _nothing_ will ever tear them apart.

Ethan stumbles, comes back to the present. Funny how after all this time, he still ends up covered in blood on a regular basis. Of course, these days, it's so very rarely his own.

It would have been forever, _should_ have been, but Eyghon changed everything. Ripper may have been a master of pain, but death, _real_ death, sent him running. It was never the same, after. So Ethan lied, smiled, pretended not to care. He sought out more pain than Ripper ever gave him, and wondered why he felt so empty. And after a while, the schemes, the chaos, the plots within plots, all became more than a way to get back at Ripper or ignore the pull of Ripper's magic or forget Ripper, and became an end in themselves.

He became very good at forgetting. At least, he was until he saw Ripper again, hiding behind a protective layer of tweed and a fatherly manner, surrounded by children who had _no idea_ who their beleved mentor really was. He'd shed the name, shed the leather, burying the old Ripper under a benign exterior and that goddamned duty he was always carping about.

It seemed, Ethan reflected, that dear old Rupert was even better at forgetting than _he_ was. And that just wouldn't do.

So he stopped fighting the pull, allowed himself to come back again and again, just to fan the spark of memory, to coax out the hints of the old Ripper that still lurked inside Rupert Giles: Watcher and Boring Old Git. It had been, on the whole, quite a satisfying experience.

But the lies were ingrained too deeply in him, and he could never let on just how much it meant, the nights after the Slayer and her little groupies beat him down, when Ripper came to him and made him scream and cry and bleed all over again.

He thinks that perhaps that was a mistake, now that his life would appear to depend on a tie that both of them have spent years denying. But, as usual, it's too little, too late. For now, he can walk.

The blood has stayed wet for a very long time, tied into the magic that keeps him going, but the last traces of stickiness are fading, and the pain is returning. He is far too aware of the dryness in his throat, his sunburnt skin, and the places in his head where thought warps around the pain, where he can feel the aftereffects of all those bloody scalpels.

Sodding desert's too fucking _big._

But he's learned to ignore pain, for Ripper's sake. So he puts one foot in front of the other. One step. Another. And Ethan Rayne walks towards Sunnydale, sending out a call that he has no way of knowing will be answered.

Where there's life, there's hope, after all.


End file.
